


Monsters. - one shot

by Chasethemorning



Category: Avengers, MCU, Marvel
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24026290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chasethemorning/pseuds/Chasethemorning
Summary: Waiting for Evac.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 5





	Monsters. - one shot

The surge of adrenaline fought the pain receptors down but as they fled the scene on his bike, she was planted firmly in front of him, facing him. She buried her face into his chest, breathing through the dust proof mask that was strapped onto her face with elastic around her ears. Looking up with lazy sea glass eyes, she could see the bottom of the skull he had painted on his. The Winter Soldier. A ghost story. Her partner. 

One of her hands slid from around her to the wound in her side, where the knife had slid into delicate flesh. She felt the warm pulsating between her fingers through the now damaged jacket around her. She held onto him tightly through the dizzy, woozy spinning as he steered them to their evacuation point using only his memory from GPS coordinates provided at the beginning of the mission. His hands were covered in leather riding gloves, his thighs in tactical military style paints though black. She could see the barrel of his rifle strapped onto his back. She could feel the other firearms stashed across the map of his body like clues beneath her wandering fingers. But she could also feel the sick in the pit of her stomach of blood loss and adrenaline fade. The tremor in her veins had begun.

He skidded around the pin turns on the mountainous hills still coated in ice and water puddles and mud at this time of year and they started the treacherous descent that gapped them from safety after the assassination. She held him tighter, scooting closer, red hair flyingunder her helmet and whipping her face from all angles as he took the turns too fast for even her comfort. A normal person would’ve had a heart attack. Natasha was just set on edge as mud and frigid water sprayed their pants and their sleeves. She hid her face again, just letting the motion take her, leaning when he leaned and keeping her torso as close to his as possible on the trip down. 

The bike sputtered to slow as he found the clearing through the field and took a hard left, her hips grinding down onto the vibration of the seat, sending strange electro neurotransmitter impulses in a wave along her brain, tingling her very tainted soul, coating her sin in a lust that would last for centuries. She tried to calm it, tried to play flute for the demon and lead it out to pasture just as she did so many times before. It wasn’t part of the mission. They’d be in trouble for it if anyone found out. The punishment may be death. But what was death compared to life and not just survival? She breathed hard into his shirt, her lips stuck between too much fabric with the filter and the clothes and the mask. 

The bike rose into the air more times than she could count through the clearing in the woods. Each time sent her harder down against the pulsing of the seat. Every bounce held her in a state of ecstasy she couldn’t describe. The real threat of a crash just fueled it farther, just like the threat of being caught. It was all that much more exciting for the risk. She blinked up at him again, gray eyes locked onto the target at the end of the path with unwavering determination and resilience for anything that came at him. The look on his face. She wished she could capture it and show him. It was the same look he got when her body was being difficult, when he was focused on his target, when he was lying to Madame B about Natalia not being attractive...

They skidded as he cut the handlebars left and spun the bike around, dropping the throttle and the kickstand and sliding off the motorcycle quickly before lifting her off after him. He wordlessly lead her into the tiny cottage and grabbed her roughly by the hips, lifting her onto the table in the kitchen roughly. The gloves came off as his hands, metal and cold and human and warm, started to tug off her clothing with primal urgency. Her jacket pooled around her bottom, her shirt flung onto the light fixture and stuck, his fingers digging off the Kevlar, and sliding between where the plates didn’t protect her through the hole in the tank top that was the only barrier left. 

She’d almost forgotten about the wound and whined, thinking the need was for his appetite as well. His fingers traced the cut and he threw off his helmet, then her own. He tugged off the mask, but left her’s as he fondled through cabinets. He tossed emergency rations and plates and glassware, growling joining the song of shattering as he searched in frustration for the med supply kit. Natalia calmly slid off the side of the table, fingers still wrapped in fabric that was wet with blood, and pulled the red box from the wall, able to read his mind in the moment of his panic. She stood there, though it made her dizzy, almost defiantly as the color left her cheeks. 

“Zima,” came her voice. 

He grunted and froze, staring at her and nearly glowering at her obvious defiance. “You need to sit,” he demanded in mother tongue, rushing to her as glass crunches under heavy boots and lifted her back to the table. His hands were gentle on her flesh though his demeanor suggested his irritation. “Do not move again until I say,” he chided, pushing her back to lay on the surface. 

She didn’t protest. She laid down and watched as he cleaned the wound near tender as a mother wiping a newborn’s face, latex coating between his hands and her. She shivered as he applied the cream that killed the bacteria, and remained still as he laced her with the needle, skillfully and silently, with the same look of focus on his face. She slid her hand down her stomach as he worked, her breathing coming more rapidly the longer he spent. As he tied off the suture, she shivered. His hands went to gauze and tape, securing it firmly over her now sewed together flesh, before pulling the gloves back off his hands. 

He dumped them on the floor and came back to her. “Are you okay?” he asked, watching her still form closely. “How do you feel?”

“I’m okay,” she said, fingers tracing his patchwork. She ran them into her waistband, watching his face for reaction. The mask still covered her lips. “Need you,” she whispered, letting her eyes close as her fingers trailed farther down, arching her back in a display.

His eyes didn’t leave her. He wet his lips and watched, intent on her body. His fingers went to tug off her mask before he crashed his mouth against hers, kissing and nipping at swollen sensitive flesh, compliant. He knew he shouldn’t. She needed to heal. But she was the center of his world and had been for so long that denial felt cruel, unusual. The rush of the killing, the way her body slid against his on the bike, the trust as he sewed her like a rag doll...

She moaned into the kiss, tugging him closer, fiddling with his belt and breathing quickly as they did the dance of the devil after doing his work. Her mind was completely encapsulated by his taste, her eyes closed. She sighed against his lips contentedly.

His fingers trailed down her body and his lips followed, her neck and the divet in her collar bone, testing the spaces where fullness had left indentation behind. His tongue dragged between her breasts, palm on the pale globesas he lifted her to him on the edge with the metal, sliding down her spine. He smirked as she moaned out for him, sliding those cybernetic fingers across her neck from behind beneath her curls. She squirmed against him, pressure in all the right places.

“Zima,” she whimpered into his ear before nipping the lobe, fingers trailing his back, hips rolling into his like waves crashing into the shore. His hands went to her hips, tugging her more firmly against him before ripping the button off of her pants and tearing the leather of her belt, tossing the things to the floor. She let her lips tease his neck, his own pants coming off as well. She clawed his back as she felt the object of desire brush against her then whined as he pushed her back down onto the table.

“Not yet,” he growled, hand on her chest. His hands were so big in comparison, the span of his fingers enveloped her chest. He smirked at the sight and pulled out the chair, sliding between her thighs. His tongue reached out first, twirling around the sensitive little ball of nerves between her folds, tickling and flicking as she shuddered and squeezed his ears like earmuffs. After teasing her, watching her arch and listen to her broken and chaotic begging, all the promises of whatever he wanted, he latched his mouth over the button, suckling gently between his lips, sliding one metal digit slowly into the carnal canal, slithering over her insides and filling her near completely. It’d been a while. Weeks. He curled his finger, his brain sending signals to the digit, hooking so quickly against the second ball of nerves that it was nearly vibrating.

She arched off the table, sitting up, thighs tight against his head and legs shaking as her toes curled in her boots. She screamed “Zima, anything, anything you want,” her nerves all firing at once. He licked up the gushing juices and slid his finger out as she gasped and whimpered through The nirvana, the rapture. There was nothing but him. Nothing. It was so seldom she felt pleasure in this, usually just a tool, usually not wanting it. 

He pulled back, kissing up her body, stalking up her in a predatory manner, nipping and licking, pressing her back to the table again. “You said anything. I want your womb filled by me, only me. Mine. My child inside you. My son,” he crushed her lips again before ramming himself roughly inside of her. He smirked as she cried out at the intrusion, thrusting slow and long until she loosened her grip on his human shoulder. He built up a rhythm, then planted a knee on the table. He rolled her to the side without the stitches and lifted her leg into the air, her ankle on his shoulder. Bending her into him, he ground himself against her with each inward thrust, metal fingers tracing her neck.

“Yes, yes... fuck... I’m yours. My body is yours. I want that. I want you inside me. Growing. Please, Zima. Don’t stop...” she whimpered in a long string, disjointed with squeals andyells and screams. She met his eyes, jutting her chin. His fingers tightened and his mouth dipped to her breast, forcing him deeper. She clenched and released around him, drawing him deeper, milking him into her, grasping at him with her muscles and with no control over it. He couldn’t thrust back out anymore as she tightened around him.

“Natalia, you’re mind.” He growled and released her neck, hearing her scream as he spilled into her, her fragile body sliding and grasping at him in ecstasy as his lips slid up, tracing her neck gently. He laid his sweaty forehead against her, bracing his weight as not to crush her, letting the feelings wash over them. His metal hand traced her stomach as he helped her onto her back again. He could feel the egg in her Fallopian tubes, the way her flesh was stitching itself closed on her side, the beats of her heart and her raised internal temperature. He kissed her lips, but gently now, staying locked together. 

It wasn’t long before he could hear the whirring but it felt like an eternity that he listened to her breathe and felt every quiver of her flesh. Her breathing was even before he went to the drawer beside the sink than came back, cleaning her flesh gently with a soft clothe, before he cleaned himself. The redhead whimpered and shifted slowly to the floor, pulling her accessible clothing back on and neatly laying his out on the table. 

By the time the helicopter landed, they were fully clothed and back on the bike, her head nestled into his chest. He slowly drove up the loading ramp and caressed her back gently before their handlers ripped them apart temporarily for examination. Once his stitching was deemed suitable she demanded him, screaming and yelling, throwing things, a tantrum of epic proportions. Assuming it a protection matter, he gave in and walked her to his cell, locking her inside with her monster. They were both terrifying creatures, but they had each other, she reflected as she lay against his chest, eyes closed, wound pressed between them. 


End file.
